Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,18

peering at me like I was a strange curio in a thrift store.

“To mutually beneficial partnerships,” I said, holding out my hand to shake. His fingers were so long they rested on my wrist. We shook, his fingers dragging down my skin, and it must have been the sticky heat and my sudden elation.

Because I felt the tip of each finger.

10

Luna

Cameron was perched on my desk, legs crossed gracefully, auburn hair loose around her shoulders. She was dressed to the nines in a power suit and killer, hot-red stilettos. And she was sweet enough to stop by my office before her next meeting.

“Drink this,” she said, placing a large ginger tea in my hand. “It’ll make you feel less nervous. And if I see you reach for those Fritos, I’ll slap them out of your hand.”

I sipped as I was told. Wrinkled my nose at her.

My apology press conference was starting in half an hour.

“Okay,” I exhaled, inhaled ginger. “You can read them.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded solemnly.

“Listen, they’re ridiculous. I can tell that just from scrolling.” I hadn’t stopped my active social media presence since the news had broken—and after today, a formal and official apology would be broadcast across every site. But I’d figured… what was the harm in continuing to post videos of my yoga poses?

Oh, how wrong I was.

“How do you spell hypocrite?” Cameron quoted. “L-u-n-a.” She rolled her eyes. “That one’s really stupid.”

I smiled a little. “Yeah, it is.”

“Okay, um… how about I always knew there was a whole lot of ugly under all of that makeup.”

I winced. Cameron caught it.

“Sorry,” she said, grabbing my shoulder.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I said, waving it off. “You’re making it better, I promise. I’m a human being. I can’t not be compelled to read these garbage comments. But having a best friend do it helps immeasurably.”

That and I could feel the guilt driving me toward punishment—didn’t I deserve this?

“Sheep fucker.”

“Excuse me?”

She laughed. “This one says that you’re a sheep fucker. You fuck sheep.”

I dropped my head in my hands, an insane-sounding laugh escaping my lips. “At least half of these comments are from lunatic trolls, I’m guessing?”

“You would be correct.” Her voice was kind. “Which is why you shouldn’t read them.”

“A lot are from fans,” I corrected. “I should read them. One more, please.”

Cameron patted my hand and scrolled. Snorted. “What a fucking idiot. Although now that I know she eats meat, I’d fuck her.”

“Oh my god, I’m not a meat-eater,” I sighed, yanking on my hair. “But I am an idiot.”

Cameron stood, brushing non-existent wrinkles from her skirt. She dropped a kiss on the crown of my head. “You are not an idiot. You are my best friend and I love you.”

“I feel the same way about you, you gorgeous angel.”

“You know I’ve been through this,” she said. “They called me a backstabbing sociopath and accused me of sleeping my way to the top. It’s impossible not to get smeared at some point. And it sucks.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” I sighed. “I assumed it would never be me. But how could I ever uphold a perfect record? I mean, there’s only a dozen potential pitfalls presented to me every single day that I have to say yes, no or maybe to with limited information.” My gut twisted—a reminder. “Although in the case of Ferris Mark, that’s on me. I didn’t do the work that needed to get done. And I still thought I’d be the Special One. The public figure that escaped scandal for her entire career.”

“Don’t we all,” she said. “But you’re owning it now. How do you feel about the statement?”

“Really good, actually,” I said. “Apologizing and owning up to my mistakes is the right thing to do as a leader. And I’m ready to move on. Plus, we made a strategic plan for me to work at this nonprofit called Lucky Dog.”

I showed Beck’s website to her.

“Fits you, Moon,” she said.

“That’s what I think too,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “Beck Mason is the director?”

I pulled out my speech for today, waved down Jasmine as she strode towards my office. “You know of him, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Doesn’t he run the Miami Devils?” Her face was pinched with concern.

“His parents do,” I said, checking my mascara in a hand-mirror. “He has nothing to do with them.” Even so, over the last day, I’d battled equal parts excitement and nerves over partnering with Lucky Dog. Sylvia had been pleased with my choice—because she fully believed it was